Mad World
by Leighton Darko
Summary: implied akuroku, soriku ; This day is perfect.


Lawl, hay guyz. 8D little fic upload thing is so damn complicated and hates my pitiful Notepad-written fics, haha.

**Title** Mad World

**Summary **[implied akuroku & soriku This day is perfect.

**Rating **T

**Warning(s)** Some mildly unsavoury images, I suppose. xD

**Disclaimer **KH does not belong to me. I just borrow the characters for my twisted little pleasures.

**Author's Notes** Errrm... Iunno. xD; Commence reading, fiends!

**:-:-:-:-:**

This day is perfect.

The sun is shining brightly, the Krylon-Robin's-egg-blue sky is filled with rolling puffs of cotton-white clouds, several species of birds are twittering and chirping as in every cliché good day, and Roxas is slamming on his brakes, throwing his Jeep Liberty to a stop, stepping out and staring into the horrifically mangled, almost irrecognizable metal of what used to be a white Oldsmobile Aurora.

There are absolutely no coherent thoughts that enter his mind as he stares, mortified, breath coming in short pants, palms cold and covered with a fine sheen of moisture. People are pulling off of the side of the road behind him, extracting cell phones and dialing what can only be the universal catastrophe number, but he can't pay them any attention -- his blue eyes are wide and can't be torn away from the window on the passenger side. He can't look away because _he knows those identical blue eyes and gravity-defying blood-matted auburn hair_.

Roxas is going to be sick, and he knows it; he can feel his mouth watering as bile accumulates -- what a disgusting taste probing at the back of his throat, considering he hasn't eaten a thing yet today, but his mind goes blank again as he doubles over, hands firm on his blue jean-clad knees as he throws up. He hasn't eaten and he's projectile vomiting pure acid but it's still more than he's ever thrown up in his life, because the only image he can see as he catches glimpses of the green, overly-fertilized grass under his shoes is the image of his brother. His brother, trapped by his seatbelt and pinned in by the door; blood spattering the spiderweb cracked window on his side as his lifeless eyes stared at Roxas as if to say, "hello, I'm here, little bro."

Tears are streaming from Roxas's eyes, but really, he doesn't care as he coughs a few times and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, fairly certain that he's done for now; he doesn't care or know because he _does_ know that his brother is past saving; he knew from the moment his eyes met vacant ones that his brother's life had ended instantaneously.

Disgusting disgusting disgusting. Shrill sirens are screaming and ripping at the air, and Roxas feels like every single one of his breaths is a bomb as he stares at the pristine ambulances and bright candy red fire trucks screeching to halts at the scene of the wreck. The driver's door is the first to come off, and Roxas realises that it's not only the sirens screaming; a familiar silver-haired man is crying out with an expression that could be taken as agony or ecstasy as he's strapped firmly down and carted into the ambulance, wailing and shouting the whole way.

Riku, Sora's long-time boyfriend, is still alive and Roxas is weak in his shaking knees again, dry heaving and becoming painfully aware of how raw the burning in his throat is. He's not paying attention to whatever they're doing with Sora's corpse; he doesn't think he can handle the thought of watching them remove his brother's body from the vehicle that had caused his horribly too soon death. No, no, with eyes clouded over and blurry tears, Roxas is left forcibly staring at the sick-soaked grass, almost wishing he could throw up because the dry heaving is really getting to him, and he's nonsensically afraid that he might toss up a few internal organs.

Someone is shouting at him, but the sound is muffled; he can only hear his blood pounding in his ears and his coughs and heaves, and the whole world has been put on a sickeningly poor mute as he stumbles to his car, trembling and quaking as he leans against the side of it. His white button-up's right sleeve meets his mouth again as he wipes away any lingering remnants of his sickness, left hand groping weakly for the door handle behind him. It's not even the driver's side, but he wrenches it open and _almost_ topples in, but catches himself and shakily lowers himself to the seat.

And he cries.

His knees instinctively draw up towards his chest, and the denim is close to something of an aching relief as he hugs them, head buried somewhere between his arms and legs as he lets himself openly sob. Roxas is a stoic man -- he tries not to show emotion as often as he can afford to masquerade and it usually works, but every bit of his veneer is falling falling falling as his jeans become drenched with hot, salty tears. He can taste them as they roll down his flushed cheeks, tumbling over and in his lips and mouth as he gasps and chokes for air.

He's not sure how long he sits there bawling in his foetal position; the sirens have cleared for the main part though some cops linger, questioning people, sensing he's obviously too shaken up to drive anywhere before he can be interrogated. But he does know that by the time he finally manages to slow his crying and look up, wiping his eyes, that night is beginning to fall; a street lamp has flickered on and the sky is stained with oranges and purples of varying degrees.

His cellphone ringtone's polyphonic notes seem to reverberate in his Jeep, and he doesn't even bother to glance at the caller ID; his phone is like a signal and Roxas unfurls from his position, awkwardly sliding from the seat to the paved sidewalk below. The police are well aware of his movement, but they've chosen to let him come to them, and Roxas stares long and hard at his black 'work-attire' dress shoes -- highlighted with warm, bold colours from the sunset and streetlight -- before he lifts his head, eyes taking a moment to focus on the police squadron.

There is one man already talking to them; he's tall, far taller than Roxas, with a body like skeletal lightning, almost emaciated looking. A mane of unruly, spiked crimson hair juts from his head, black headphones for obvious decor purposes hanging freely around his thin neck, a black shirt with a design like a vomited neon rainbow is loose on his upper body, and blue jeans tight on his lower body, but when he turns, looking off to the side, Roxas feels like someone's knocked the air out of him as he catches a brief glimpse of the most piercing emerald eyes he's ever seen.

The man looks like someone thrown violently from the 80's who would scream that punk isn't dead, and Roxas waits for him to finish speaking to the police before he moves any closer. He does stop after a few minutes, a gloved hand on the back of his neck as he looks off to the side once more; turning, he catches Roxas's eye, and pauses.

A slow, unsure wave from the man that's like a far off memory from a scattered dream -- Roxas hesitantly mirrors it, watching as the man returns to his car and drives off. Feeling like he's got an unfortunate case of jet lag, Roxas slowly walks to the police, ready to give an account of the accident.

Maybe he'll begin to understand why the day was such a beautiful disaster.


End file.
